


Bliss

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light and warmth filter themselves through the branches in their endless quest for fertile earth to kiss and bring to life. Mycroft tightens his fingers around the cup he’s holding in his lap. Beneath his thigh Sherlock shifts his right foot just a bit to settle himself more comfortably in his chair. Mycroft smiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bliss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardust_made](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/gifts).



> Beta: the lovely nanfreak. I can’t thank her enough for her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course  
> Written for: the wonderful stardust_made to thank her for all the marvellous stories she has given us all and for being such a loving, guiding friend. Thank you very much, stardust_made. I’ve given this my utmost for you. I fully realise my writing will never be of the same quality as yours. But I’ll keep trying

The play of the sunrays on the water surface whips up a myriad of colours around Mycroft, from dark swirling amber to a moist mossy green. The middle of the lake, where the waters are deeper and less murky, is a mirror reflecting the tender blue of the sky above with its promise of a warm summer day. 

Mycroft takes in a huge mouthful of air, forcing the sharp freshness down into his lungs and dips his head into the water, keeping up the fast pace of the breast stroke he’s set for himself.

Upon entering the lake he found the temperature almost unbearably cold – it’s still early summer after all and the island has endured a long, harsh winter – but his brisk movements have warmed his body and now he rejoices in the hiemal rawness’ continuing attack, exhilarates in his triumph over one of nature’s elements, over his own body. He has willed his mind to ignore the initial discomforts and through his determination managed to turn a possible ordeal into a pleasant experience.

The sunrays kissing his shoulders help as well, of course. 

Oh, the delightfulness of this clear water lapping against his limbs, so different from the chlorinated substitute he has to make do with in London. The taste as it flows over his lips not one of revolting chemistry but nature’s honesty. Mycroft flips around a few times with uncharacteristic elation to end up floating on his back. He closes his eyes against the strong sunlight. 

The veins on the inside of his eyelids are projected in stark hues of red and purple against a glowing orange background. He remembers how he lay on his back in these waters for hours as a child. At the end of summer, when the water had warmed to a pleasant degree and the gentle undulating waves whipped up by his splashing evoked the memory of the order and safety of his mother’s womb. All Mycroft had had to do every now and then was to crack open an eye and check whether his little brother wasn’t doing his utmost to try and drown himself as he sat playing in the sand at the shallow end of the lake.

A rumble in his stomach sends Mycroft to the water’s edge and out of the lake. He towels himself with great energy before shrugging on his robe. Maybe he can persuade Sherlock to come for a swim in the afternoon. To glide side by side through these waters where they’ve spent so many childhood hours together. To reconfirm their bond in this new reality Sherlock has unearthed for them, this parallel world where Sherlock leads and Mycroft follows. Such an unusual position for Mycroft to find himself in. But he relishes it. Mycroft’s dip has cleaned his skin of any lingering traces of Sherlock’s scent. But he can still taste the essence of his brother against his palate.

Back at the house Mycroft finds his father seated at a table laid out for breakfast on the terrace. 

“Good morning, my boy,” he greets Mycroft genially, reaching up with his hand to coax Mycroft’s head down for a peck on his cheek. “You already had your swim, I see. That’s my boy. The water is still frightfully cold, I presume. Would you mind joining me for breakfast? I must be off in fifteen minutes. I promised Campion I would go for a round of golf with him. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it terribly much but he’s bound to know more about that awkward situation with the Italians so I thought I might as well go and see what information I can wiggle out of him between drives.”

The delicate smell of Orange Pekoe wafts up from the table. Mycroft pours himself a cup of tea and replies: “The man is an ill-mannered brute. Worse, an insufferable bore. I do feel sorry for you to have to spend such a lovely day in his company.” He holds up the pot and raises his eyebrows. “Would you like some more tea, Daddy?”

“Yes please. Well, someone has to do it, eh? I think today is in fact excellent for the little mission I’ve set myself. He will be feeling hot and drowsy. That should have him open up readily without too much probing. At the end of the day he won’t even have realised what he gave away. Next week will be a different matter, though.” A quiet smile tugs at the corners of Daddy’s lips.

Mycroft looks at his father in open admiration. When it comes down to wheedling facts out of an unwilling informer the elderly upright British government official carries more tricks up his sleeve than the world’s greatest illusionists. His shrewd stratagems still leave Mycroft agape every now and then, worriedly wondering whether he will ever be his father’s match in sheer deviousness and ingenuity. He knows he shares his father’s dedicated devotion to Queen and country. But what good is determined commitment if it’s rendered ineffectual by puerile blundering about. Not that he’s ever made a mistake yet, thank God. But the shining example set by his father of what it comprises to occupy a minor occupation in the British Government leaves Mycroft in agonising doubt of his own capabilities every now and then.

“Jack came by just a minute ago,” Daddy continues. “He told me the first strawberries are ready to be picked today. That will have your mother happy. She’s been eating her heart out with worry over those plants ever since we had that last bout of heavy frost in March. So you’ll have strawberry tartlets for dessert, dear boy.” 

Daddy laughs. “My, I remember you gobbled up five of them once despite your mother warning you and Nanny imploring you not to do so. Of course you were terribly sick afterwards. But one won’t do you any harm.” 

His father stands and throws his napkin on the table. “Say good day to your mother and Sherlock from me, will you? Those two seem determined to sleep through one of the most beautiful days we’ve had so far.”

A strong hand is laid on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezes it affectionately, then his father steps through the French doors and disappears down the hallway. 

Mycroft is left by himself, enjoying the silent sounds of the grounds around him, the gentle drone of the bees busily at work in the rose garden to the left of the terrace, the exuberant song of the blackbird that has taken permanent residence in the white garden to the right. A soft breeze whispers against the skin of Mycroft’s face and his naked feet and shins, bearing a promise in the smells it carries. Another layer above the homely scents of toast and tea. A cocktail of sun-warmed dewy earth, laced with freshly-mown grass, enhanced by the heady whiff of Mummy’s Comte de Chambord roses. If Mycroft raises his head ever so slightly he can see the pink profusion of flowers on the bushes at the right hand side of the garden.

Mycroft pours himself another cup of tea and butters some toast. The encounter with Daddy went remarkably well, considering the circumstances. Mycroft was able to pay attention to his father’s words, answer him, nod at the required times and appreciate the touch on his shoulder without having to endure the horrible guilt flashing up hotly inside him once. Maybe his conscience is adapting to reality at last. It has displayed remarkable agility and flexibility in adjusting to awkward situations in his work, so why not in this affair concerning his soul?

And his body. Mycroft flexes his limbs luxuriously in the caressing warmth of the sun before taking a bite of his toast. He rolls his shoulders in an almost subconscious movement, feels the shiver travelling down his spine, lingering on his coccyx before sharply moving over to the front and upwards to come to rest in a tingling sensation in his nipples. 

His body, yes. This body that only six hours ago was put to use to pay homage to his own deity, silver eyes locked with Mycroft’s as his worship was rewarded with that faint sigh that is sweeter to him than any sound on this Earth can be: _“Mycroft.”_

Oh, that Sherlock will never stop sighing his name.

Today Mycroft is going to spend free of any worrying, any doubts about the choice he made half a year ago. Last night he and Sherlock made love, three rooms down from their parents’ bedroom, and tonight, after a long and lazy day, he and Sherlock are going to engage in another tryst and the opinion of the world on Mycroft and his brother uniting in the act of love be damned. 

Sipping his tea the muscles of his abdomen clench again at the memory of the joyous look that had lit Sherlock’s face yesterday afternoon upon recognising Mycroft’s car. Sherlock had stood waiting outside the school gates, the epitome of bored late adolescence, but the moment his coldly appraising eyes had spied Mycroft hot happiness had flared up in them.

Sherlock had thrown his black duffle bag into the back of the car and seated himself next to Mycroft with a loud exclamation of: “Thank God I’m freed from that horrid school. Forever!”

He had turned to Mycroft next. “Brotherly kiss?”

Mycroft had nodded. The breath ghosting over his cheek as Sherlock fluttered his lips against Mycroft’s skin left his knuckles white in their hard grip on the gear-lever. Sherlock had placed his hand on top. Just a second, as if to convince himself Mycroft was indeed real.

“Go,” he had commanded and Mycroft had started the car and driven off, the moment laden with dark promise.

One more cup of tea and the pot’s finished, signalling to Mycroft he should go upstairs and shower. Mycroft stands under the scalding hot spray for a long time, enjoying the flow of the hot water over his torso, past his penis and testicles hanging spent and sated for now, and disappearing with a swirl down the drain. The shower is finished with a firm turning off of the hot water, Mycroft gasps with the shock as the cold water hits him, then relishes in the sharp spikes of his sluggish blood perking up in his veins.

After towelling off Mycroft brushes his teeth and shaves, taking pleasure in the ordinariness of the activity, making sure his cheeks and chin and throat rise from beneath the scraped off foam as smooth and soft as the skin of a newly-born infant. If Sherlock finds a chance to bring his lips into contact with any part of Mycroft’s face sometime during the day – and his little brother is so ingenious Mycroft is assured Sherlock will be able to bring this feat off several times in the most innocuous way– Mycroft wants the brush of his cheek against Sherlock’s mouth to be a soft caress. He ends his toilette with the application of his aftershave lotion. A new scent he’s chosen especially to please Sherlock. Nothing but a breeze with a discreet hint of cloves. Perfect for a languid summery day. Mycroft eyes himself in the mirror with satisfaction, he has actually lost some weight and it looks good on him, makes him look sharp and austere, then puts out the light.

In his room Mycroft checks the bed for any lingering traces of their nightly activity. He finds four dark curly hairs near the pillow. He picks them up and deposits them in the bin next to his desk. The sheets carry some traces of their release but he’s a healthy male in his prime, the evidence of him being just a man shouldn’t upset the maid overly much. He dresses quickly in a soft cotton shirt and fawn slacks, savouring the feeling of freedom induced by the casual clothing as he stands rolling up the shirt sleeves. He puts on a pair of desert boots to complete the holiday ensemble. No true Brit should ever feel uncomfortable about putting on a pair of this rather inelegant footwear. These same boots were worn by the brave men that beat Rommel and thus added to the Commonwealth’s ultimate victory. 

On his desk the stack of files on the upcoming talks with the Australians eye him expectantly. Mycroft has brought them to talk them through with Daddy and ask his opinion on several hitches he’s discovered at his first quick perusal. Maybe he should delve into them more thoroughly now. Mycroft hesitates in front of the desk for fifteen long seconds. He should – .But he won’t. 

Instead he reaches for his copy of Tacitus’ Historiae. An immersion in the biting sentences of the Roman misanthrope has often served him better to prepare himself for dealing with an awkward or unpleasant situation than any flicking through thick, carefully constructed but blatantly uninformative files. Who knows what new light the famous consul may shed on the Australians. And in such beautiful phrases too.

Downstairs he steals into Daddy’s study to check on the situation at the office. Another highly useful device of Daddy’s Mycroft has learned. Daddy and he may be accessible twenty four hours a day thanks to the still recent wonders of mobile technology but that doesn’t mean there’s no reason to keep their minions alert and at tiptoe at all times. Never let them lull themselves into an soft and easy sleep. The country’s enemies don’t take rest.

On the other end of the line a competent-sounding woman assures him all is quiet on the home front. He will be contacted the moment anything is amiss. There’s no reason for him to spend the weekend fretting. Everyone knows how much depends on the upcoming week.

“Yes, fine, thank you,” he tells the discreet murmuring voice and ends the call. The woman as well as Mycroft know he will telephone again several times that day but Mycroft is the one who knows in advance how often and at what times. 

Outside Mummy and Cook are seated together at the cleared breakfast table to discuss the Sunday lunch preparations. 

“Hello, darling.” Mummy stands and raises her arms to pull his head down and kiss him on both cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”

“Wonderful,” he assures her. “London was just stifling but the night air here sent me into a most refreshing oblivion. I nearly slept through the alarm.”

“Oh, but you shouldn’t have set it. You need your sleep, my boy.”

“I wanted to go for an early dip in the lake.”

Mummy laughs. “Oh my, did you. Jack told me last week when he cut the reed the temperature of the water was still freezing cold.”

“It was rather. But it felt so much better than wallowing about in one of those overheated London pools.”

“Well, it’s your choice.” Mummy pats his hand affectionately. “Mycroft, darling, I asked the Hargraves over for Sunday lunch. I hope you don’t mind too much. But we haven’t invited them for ages. And he is a most useful neighbour.”

“Do whatever you must, Mummy. I’ll be my most charming self, I promise.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m still not too sure about Sherlock’s behaviour in public even though he was clearly doing his best last Christmas. So you must help your father and me out a bit.”

Mycroft bends to kiss Mummy on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” he tells her. “During our holiday this spring I was struck pleasantly by the change in him. Sherlock will behave himself. I’m going over and read a bit in the orchard in case you need me.”

The message of his whereabouts dropped he skips down the steps, finding joy in the unusual mode of conveyance, and saunters off across the turf in the direction of the big field. Tacitus’ deployment of the antics of his fellow Romans swings lazily in his right hand.

At the edge of the field he stands still for a moment, drinking in the beauty of the scene in front of his eyes. The field stretches away from him, right up to the orchard in the far distance and the kitchen garden to the left. The grass is still fresh with dew. The last drops are vaporising into a soft invisible mist that hovers above the stalks to blur and soften the bright green of the grasses and the clover, the shocking reds and blues and whites of the flowers. 

Breathing deeply several times Mycroft lets his eyes dart over the well-ordered bounty of the landscape. He focuses on the detail of a single buttercup. Such a prim and innocent flower. Never before has Mycroft noticed the lewd glistening inside of the leaves. The botanical discovery makes him huff in appreciation. 

He raises his head and his gaze zooms out to encompass all of his surroundings again. 

A blue English sky, free from any threat of a shower to spoil the glory of the day, even if only for a brief instant. The tops of a forest of old beech trees block the horizon. They form a screen which weaves its colours of bright and darker emerald green as the leaves are stirred by the faint breeze. If Mycroft squints his eyes just so he can spot the old wall running around the estate between the trunks of the fruit trees. The orchard itself, the cherry trees to the right hand side blushing merrily with the ripe fruit. The languid composition of wicker chairs and one rickety oak wood table on the boundary between the orchard and the field, summing up the essence of true British contentment and that’s where Mycroft aims to spend a considerable part of this day.

He walks through the high grass of the field, relishing in the scents wafting up from the stalks as they are broken by his step. His ears are dizzy with the buzzing sounds of the bees and other insects, patrolling the field as thoroughly and meticulously as the armed forces on a peace-keeping mission. 

The field flowers fade in and out of his vision, their shapes and splashes of colour transforming themselves into Sherlock, reaching out for him and melting into their true form again as he passes. The dusky cranesbill becomes Sherlock’s eye, blinking down on Mycroft in the darkness as Sherlock told him that morning he was off to his own room now, white campion is Sherlock’s long arm clasping Mycroft in his embrace. Mycroft bends and picks a poppy, presses the papery-thin delicate folds of the flower to his lips. A few seconds of sublime transfiguration. The flower quivers and parts its folds like Sherlock’s kiss-bruised lips, yielding readily …

_Oh._

Mycroft shakes himself free from the illusion. He crushes the flower and walks on at a brisk pace, over to the chairs. He pulls a lounge chair over towards the shade of a gnarly old apple tree and installs himself, opening his book at random. Soon he is absorbed in the vagaries of the short-lived reign of Vitellius, raising his eyebrows every now and then in silent approval of the short, cutting sentences shredding the wickedly inept Emperor into tiny pieces. He chuckles at the bumbling bid for power under the false name of freedom for the people by the Batavian leaders. 

Tancredi’s shockingly cynic comment on history steps to the forefront in his mind suddenly, the Italian perhaps induced by the Latin sentences. _Tutto deve cambiare affinchè nulla cambi._ Everything must change so everything will remain the same. How true those words are. But to accede so openly would render all his daily travail null and void. One may remove oneself from the world, turn one’s back on humanity in disgust and go live a holy life in the desert, what good is that to the common people who won’t appreciate the effort one bit. Better to strive and toil for the greater general good, even in the knowledge in the long run every effort is probably in vain. 

He occupies after all, nothing but a minor position in the British government. And really, the similarities between the Australian Prime Minister and Gaius Julius Civilis strike him as most apt suddenly. Mycroft laughs at this justification of Tancredi’s maxim. He’s found the position he’s going to take the next week. 

“Morning, Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s voice bolts Mycroft back to his surroundings. Mycroft looks up to find his brother looming over him, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“Good morning,” Mycroft says. He glances at his watch, it’s nearly twelve noon already. He’s been sitting here for almost two hours, unaware of his surroundings.

“Cook bade me to bring you some coffee and sandwiches,” Sherlock continues. “I asked her to prepare some for me as well. Thought we’d have us a picnic. Mummy is away to oversee one of her ghastly charities or something.”

Sherlock raises the hamper and wiggles it with an expectant look on his face before depositing it on the ground. He turns next to fetch himself a chair. Now Sherlock is here Mycroft cannot _not_ look at him. He’s all graceful ease, even if deciding on a chair to sit on, at home in his body in a way Mycroft will never be in his own. Actively participating in every movement he makes. He’s a walking piece of performance art. And he is Mycroft’s. There’s that unconscious contraction of Mycroft’s abdomen again, but now he feels his heart thumping in his chest as well. 

There is … all this _feeling_. Mycroft doubts whether he will ever be able to handle it. 

“Did you sleep well,” he asks. It sounds like the stupid question it is but Mycroft still has trouble pertaining his usual self in front of his brother. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

“Like an innocent baby,” Sherlock answers with a wicked grin. He lifts a chair and carries it over to where Mycroft is sitting.

The chair is installed close to Mycroft’s and now Sherlock bends to search the hamper for a pair of sturdy earthenware mugs and two matching plates.

“I got us our anchovy paste, cucumber, cheese and pickles and ham,” he enumerates in a mocking common accent. “She made us far too much as usual,” he continues in his own voice. “What will you have?”

“Cucumber, please.” 

Mycroft is handed his plate. Sherlock distributes the coffee as well.

“Now I want my reward for being your eager little servant,” he says. He falls down on his knees next to Mycroft’s chair and brings his cheek close in front of Mycroft’s face. 

“Kiss me,” he commands. His voice is hoarse. 

Mycroft eyelids flutter shut for a brief moment. The smell of Sherlock’s sun-warmed skin and still-wet hair, reshaping itself into the unruly mass of curls in the warm air, blocks out all the other scents whirling around them on this hot summer day. The whole world is shrunken and brought back to its essence. 

Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft and Sherlock. 

Mycroft can hear his brother’s breathing, quiet and assured, the fact he’s bent at rather an awkward angle to bring his cheek in front of Mycroft’s lips no effort to his body at all. 

Another moment of doubt holds Mycroft frozen in his chair but then he overcomes this false worrying that’s unworthy of him. His hands shoot up to clasp themselves around Sherlock’s head so they can turn his face towards Mycroft’s.

“I will never stop kissing you,” Mycroft says and he presses his lips to Sherlock’s in a wild wet urgency lacking all grace. His teeth bump awkwardly against the heavy drop of his brother’s lower lip with the clumsiness of his caress.

Sherlock pulls back. He says nothing, just gazes at Mycroft with eyes that are round and luminous, like the Thames waters in front of the Houses of Parliament as the sun breaks briefly through the clouds on a winter’s day to whip up great flares of light out of the waves’ crests.

“Your coffee is getting cold,” he says at last.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Yes.” 

He picks up his mug and Sherlock settles himself in his chair. He reaches down, pulls his shoes off and brings up his feet to wriggle them beneath Mycroft’s thigh. They find their rest, a little bony and hard but Mycroft finds his thigh easily adapts itself, actually finding pleasure in the intimacy.

Sherlock takes a sip of his coffee. “Maybe we can go for a swim later in the afternoon,” he suggests in a lazy voice.

Mycroft looks at him, at Sherlock, at the boy he loves, at the light dappling on Sherlock’s white Tee-shirt stretched over his narrow chest.

“That would be lovely,” Mycroft says and his hand fleets over Sherlock’s ankle beneath the hem of the jeans.

He unlocks his gaze from Sherlock’s and tilts his face towards the sun. 

The light and warmth filter themselves through the branches in their endless quest for fertile earth to kiss and bring to life. Mycroft tightens his fingers around the cup he’s holding in his lap. Beneath his thigh Sherlock shifts his right foot just a bit to settle himself more comfortably in his chair. Mycroft smiles. 

This then, this place, this day is bliss.


End file.
